Sandokan: The Pirates of Malaysia (The Sandokan Series Book 3)

by Emilio Salgari

  He left the window and walked to the opposite wall. He looked about carefully, then knelt down and picked up a tiny arrow with a ball of paper wrapped about its tip.

  “I never would have guessed Señor Yanez could use a blowpipe,” he murmured.

  He unrolled the paper and found two pungent, tiny, black pills. Poison or narcotics, he wondered, as his eyes fell upon the scribbled instructions. He returned to the window and carefully read the following lines:

  All is going well. Unless something unexpected happens, we’ll rescue Tremal-Naik tomorrow night. I’ve enclosed some sleeping pills. Find a way to feed them to your guard, then escape. I’ll meet you near the fort tomorrow at noon.

  Yanez

  “Well done, Señor Yanez!” murmured the Maratha, deeply moved. “You think of everything.”

  He leaned against the metal bars and began to think. A short while later a tap on the door tore him from his thoughts.

  “This is it!” he murmured.

  Without a sound, he quickly approached the table upon which had been set a bowl of rice, some mangoes and two large glasses of tuak. He dropped the pills into the liquid and watched them dissolve in an instant.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Your dinner,” replied a voice.

  The door opened and an Indian soldier armed with a large scimitar and a long-barrelled pistol inlaid with mother-of-pearl cautiously entered the room. He carried a talc lantern in one hand and a basket full of provisions in the other.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” asked the guard, his eyes resting upon the full glasses and the untouched food.

  The Maratha glared at him.

  “There’s no need to worry, my friend,” continued the soldier. “The rajah is a generous man. He’s not going to hang you.”

  “But he would poison my food,” said Kammamuri, feigning terror.

  “Is that why you haven’t eaten anything?”

  “Of course.”

  “You fasted in vain, my friend. No one has poisoned your food.”

  “You say that, but would you drink a glass to prove it?”

  “If you insist!”

  Kammamuri picked up the doctored glass and handed it to the soldier.

  “Drink this,” he said.

  Having no reason to be suspicious, the Indian placed the glass to his lips and drank a good part of its contents.

  “Hey...” he said hesitatingly. “What did they put in this tuak?”

  “Nothing,” said the Maratha, his eyes fixed on the guard.

  “My legs feel strange.”

  “Oh?”

  “My head is spinning... I can’t see... I...”

  The words died on his lips. His eyes widened and he lurched forward as if shot in the chest, then fell to the ground unconscious.

  Kammamuri quickly relieved the guard of his pistol and scimitar. Fearing the noise had attracted the others, he rushed to the door and listened, but not a sound came from the corridor.

  “So far so good!” he sighed. “If my luck holds, I’ll be out of the city in ten minutes.”

  He undressed the Indian, quickly donned the man’s trousers, jacket and sash then wrapped on the soldier’s turban in a way that concealed most of his forehead and eyes. Once clothed, he took the man’s weapons, sheathed the scimitar and tucked the pistol into his belt.

  He cautiously opened the door, scanned the corridor, then walked to the steps at the far end, went down them, and strolled past the sentry and out onto the square.

  “Is that you, Labuk?” asked a voice.

  “Yes,” replied Kammamuri, without turning to address him, fearing he would be recognized.

  “May Shiva protect you.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  The Maratha walked off quickly, eyes scanning his surroundings, ears straining to catch the slightest sound. He kept close to the houses, hiding whenever he thought he spotted one of the rajah’s guards at the end of a street or lane. Ten minutes later, he reached the foot of the hill; the moon shone brightly, bathing the fort in its silvery light. He stopped and listened.

  Music from the Chinese quarter reached his ears, the notes mingling with the songs of the Dyak and Malay boatmen sitting along the river. But not a single sound emanated from the rajah’s palace or the main square.

  “I’m safe!” he murmured after several anxious minutes. “No one’s discovered my escape.”

  He rushed into the forest of tall mangosteens, beautiful mango trees and chaotic cettings that covered the hill. Fighting his way through bushes, fording ponds of black, muddy water and jumping from tree to tree to avoid leaving tracks, in less than an hour he arrived, unseen, to within a rifle shot of the fort. He climbed a tall tree and settled among its branches. It was the perfect hiding place; he could watch, undetected, all that transpired upon the hill as he waited for the Portuguese to arrive.

  The night passed uneventfully. At four in the morning, the sun began to rise, slowly lighting the river that wound through the city’s fertile farmlands, lush forests and surrounding plantations. A few hours later, the Maratha, still atop his observation post, spotted two men come out of the fort at a run.

  “I wonder what’s happening?” murmured Kammamuri. “It looks serious. Could they have learned of my escape?”

  To avoid being spotted by the men running down the path, he climbed up higher among the leaves and waited. An hour later, the two Englishmen reappeared, walking back up towards the fort, followed by an officer and a European dressed in white, a small black box fastened to his belt.

  “A doctor?” wondered Kammamuri, turning pale. “Something’s happened to my master! What’s keeping Señor Yanez!”

  He slid to the ground and crawled towards the path, determined to question the first person he saw, but the clock struck twelve, then one, then two, then three, without a soul passing his way.

  Towards five o’clock, a man in a large straw hat with a pair of pistols tucked in his belt appeared at the turn in the path. Kammamuri recognized him immediately.

  “Señor Yanez!” he exclaimed.

  The Portuguese was advancing slowly, carefully scanning his surroundings as if looking for someone; at the sound of that voice he froze for a moment. Spying Kammamuri, he ran towards the Indian and pushed him into a thicket.

  “You have to be more careful, my friend! If you’d been spotted by a guard, you’d have been arrested immediately and even I wouldn’t have been able to help you a second time.”

  “Something terrible has happened in the fort, Señor Yanez,” said the Maratha. “I can feel it.”

  “Something terrible? What do you mean?”

  “Two men went to fetch a doctor. They came back with an officer. My master is dying, what else could it be?”

  “Yes, I’d wager your master has created quite a stir.”

  “My master!”

  “Yes, my friend.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead!” exclaimed the Maratha, swaying slightly.

  “There’s no need to worry, my friend. They think he’s dead, but he’s very much alive, I assure you.”

  “Ah! Señor Yanez, what a shock you just gave me! Did you give him some kind of drug?”

  “I gave him some pills that suspend life for thirty-six hours.”

  “And they’ll think he’s dead?”

  “Without question.”

  “How are we going to rescue him?”

  “They’re probably going to bury him tonight.”

  “And we’ll dig him up and take him to safety!” the Maratha added excitedly. “Where are they going to take him?”

  “We’ll know soon enough. We’ll follow the burial party when they leave the fort.”

  “When do we rescue my master?”

  “Tonight.”

  “The two of us?”

  “You and Sandokan.”

  “I’ll inform him immediately. Will you be coming with us?”

  “I
can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The rajah is giving a ball tonight in honour of the Dutch ambassador; I’ll arouse suspicions if I don’t attend.”

  “Look!” exclaimed the Maratha, his eyes anxiously fixed upon the fort.

  “What is it?”

  “Some men are leaving the fort.”

  “Good Lord!”

  He pushed aside the branches of the thick bush and cast his gaze upon the hilltop.

  Two soldiers had left the fort carrying a stretcher, transporting a body wrapped in a shroud. Two more soldiers, carrying spades and hoes, and a guard followed close behind.

  “Time to go,” said Yanez.

  “Where are they going?” Kammamuri asked anxiously.

  “Down the opposite side of the hill.”

  “They’re going to bury him in the cemetery!”

  “It looks like it. We’ll go around the forest, try not to make any noise.”

  They left the thicket, headed in among the trees and slowly made their way to the far end of the fort, fighting through bushes, slicing through thick roots and jumping over fallen timber. Once they reached the other side of the hill, Yanez stopped.

  “Where are they?” he wondered.

  “There they are, down there,” said the Maratha.

  The small squad was within sight, moving down a narrow path towards a tiny patch of grass surrounded by superb trees. In the centre, protected by a modest fence, was a space thick with wooden crosses and white gravestones.

  “That must be the cemetery,” said Yanez.

  “Are they heading there?” asked Kammamuri.

  “Yes.”

  “What a relief, Señor Yanez. I was afraid they’d throw my poor master into the river.”

  “The same thought crossed my mind.”

  The soldiers entered the cemetery, stopped in the centre, and rested the stretcher upon the ground. Yanez watched as they looked for a place among the gravestones for several minutes, then picked up their shovels and began to dig.

  “The loose earth will mark the spot,” the Portuguese told the Maratha.

  “Won’t my master suffocate once he’s buried in the ground?” asked Kammamuri.

  “No, my friend. The pills have stopped his breathing. Don’t worry he’ll be fine, you have my word. Now run immediately to Sandokan, tell him to gather his men and to come rescue your master.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll meet up with you tomorrow at the camp and we’ll set sail for Mompracem. Hurry now, time is of the essence.”

  The Maratha did not wait to be told twice. He drew his pistol and disappeared into the jungle.

  Chapter 8

  Yanez in a Trap

  THE PORTUGUESE RETURNED to the city towards ten that evening, and was surprised to find it bustling with excitement. Dressed in their finest attire, crowds of Chinese, Dyaks, Malays, Macassars, Bugis, Javanese, and Tagalis crisscrossed the streets and lanes, shouting and laughing as they walked towards the main square in front of the rajah’s palace. They had undoubtedly received news of the party for the ambassador and were flocking in great numbers, certain of a good time and hoping, perhaps, for some free food and drink.

  “Excellent,” he murmured, rubbing his hands happily. “With all this commotion, Sandokan will slip into the city unnoticed. An excellent distraction, my dear Brooke! I am grateful.”

  Using his elbows, and, at times, his fists to advance, he reached the square five minutes later. Numerous torches blazed brightly along its perimeter, casting their light upon the houses, the nearby trees and the rajah’s palace, defended, for the occasion, by a double row of well-armed soldiers. A large throng of people had crowded into that space, their drunken cries filling the air as they enjoyed the celebration. The good citizens of Sarawak danced enthusiastically to the music emanating from the palace, crowding against the houses and trees, even knocking against the row of soldiers from time to time.

  “Guess I’m a little late,” laughed Yanez. “Let’s hope my absence hasn’t caused his Excellency any worry.”

  He walked to the gate, identified himself to the guard, went up the stairs and entered his room to prepare for the evening.

  “Is everyone having a good time?” he asked the Indian servant the rajah had placed at his disposal.

  “Very much so, Milord.”

  “Who’s on the guest list?”

  “A few Europeans, Malays, Dyaks and Chinese.”

  “Quite a mix. I guess there’s no need for formal dress; just as well, I didn’t bring my eveningwear.”

  He brushed his clothes and put away his weapons, concealing a small pistol in one of his pockets as a precaution. He headed towards the ballroom, but stopped at the entrance, his eyes widening in surprise.

  Though the room was not vast, it had been decorated with impeccable taste. Large Venetian mirrors adorned the walls, brightly painted Dyak mats covered the floor; numerous bronze lamps from Europe hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in their warm light. Beautiful vases of Chinese porcelain, brimming with bright red peonies and large magnolias, adorned the tables, sweetening the air with their heavy fragrance.

  There were no more than fifty guests but such a variety of people! And such costumes! There were four Europeans dressed in white, about fifteen Chinese dressed in bright silk, ten or twelve Malays in long Indian robes; five or six Dyak leaders with their women, wearing next to nothing but adorned with hundreds of bracelets and necklaces strung with tiger teeth. Macassars, Bugis, Tagalis and Javanese hopped about like madmen, grumbling noisily every time the Chinese orchestra comprised of twenty flautists and four bianquing[5] percussionists played a tune they could not dance to.

  “What a party!” laughed Yanez. “Unique to say the least.”

  He entered the room and walked towards the rajah, the only man attired in black evening dress; he was chatting with a portly Chinese man, most likely one of Sarawak’s principal merchants.

  “Looks like everyone’s having fun,” he said.

  “Ah!” exclaimed the rajah, turning towards him. “You’ve arrived, Milord! I’ve been expecting you for a couple of hours.”

  “I made it all the way up to the fort then got lost on the way back.”

  “Did you attend the prisoner’s funeral?”

  “No, Excellency. A little too gloomy for my taste.”

  “What do you think of the party?”

  “It looks like fun, though it’s a bit more chaotic than I expected.”

  “My dear friend, we’re in Sarawak. Chinese, Malays and Dyaks do not know any better. Find yourself a lovely young Dyak and join the dance.”

  “I find it impossible to dance to this kind of music, Excellency.”

  “A definite advantage,” laughed the rajah.

  A cry suddenly erupted behind them, loud enough to be heard above the noise.

  Yanez and the rajah immediately turned and caught a glimpse of a man with a long white beard retreating through the doorway.

  “What’s happening?” asked the rajah.

  Several people headed towards the door but were quickly turned away.

  “Wait here, Milord,” said the rajah.

  Yanez did not move. That cry, which seemed so familiar, had shaken him to the depths of his soul. He turned pale and his face showed signs of worry. Where had he heard that cry before? He thrust a hand into his pocket and silently loaded his pistol, determined to use it if necessary.

  The rajah re-entered and Yanez immediately noticed a frown upon his brow. The pirate grew even more nervous.

  “Is everything alright, Excellency?” he asked, making an extraordinary effort to appear calm.

  “Yes, Milord,” replied the rajah.

  “But that cry?” insisted Yanez.

  “A friend of mine.”

  “What happened?”

  “He suddenly felt sick. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Yet...”

  “Yes?”

  “That did not s
ound like a cry of pain.”

  “You’re mistaken, Milord. Now, why don’t you find yourself a nice Dyak woman and dance a polka.”

  The rajah moved away and began to talk with one of his guests. Yanez, however, remained where he stood; stone still, eyes fixed upon his host, watching his every move.

  “Something’s up,” he murmured. “Eyes open, Yanez.”

  At last he went and sat behind a group of Malays. He kept his eyes fixed on the rajah and noted that his host would often scan the room, as if searching for someone. Yanez started.

  “He’s looking for me,” the pirate murmured. “Well, my dear Brooke, I’ll play a trick on you before you can play one on me.”

  Affecting a great deal of calm, he stood up, circled the room two or three times then stopped two paces from the door. One of the rajah’s servants was standing there. He gestured for him to approach.

  “Who screamed a few moments ago?” he asked.

  “One of the rajah’s friends,” replied the Indian.

  “What was his name?”

  “I do not know, Milord.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the rajah’s study.”

  “Is he sick?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “No, Milord. Two guards have been posted in front of the door, and they’ve been ordered not to let anyone enter.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “I don’t know his name, sir.”

  “Is he British?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has he been in Sarawak?”

  “I believe he arrived shortly after the battle at the mouth of the river,” he said.

  “The battle against the Tiger of Malaysia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he one of the Tiger’s enemies?”

  “Yes, he’s been searching for him in the forest.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” said Yanez, pressing a rupee into the servant’s hand.

  Troubled by what he had learned, he left the hall and walked to his room. Once inside, he closed the door and drew the bolt as a precaution. He pulled a pair of pistols and a poisoned tipped kris from the wall, then opened the window and peered over the windowsill.

  A double row of Indian soldiers, armed with rifles, surrounded the house. Just beyond them, a crowd of two or three hundred people danced frenetically, filling the air with savage cries.